


Aftermath

by BootsnBlossoms, Kryptaria



Series: Refraction [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:25:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of a mission gone horribly wrong, Q helps Bond through his nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> As always, special thanks to the best collaborators, co-conspirators, and betas ever! Alphabetically, they are: CousinCecily, Jennybel75, Mitaya, and Snogandagrope.

_The worst part isn’t the gunshot. Not the explosive sound or the anticipation of pain. It’s not even the anticipation of damage — of being damaged beyond repair._

_The worst part is the wet heat that tells you when your skin has been torn, a breach of that fragile layer that holds you together. Too many times, Bond has felt that nauseating reversal, air touching blood and raw flesh and muscle, blood pouring out over skin._

_This time, he feels one without the other._

_“Bloody fucking Christ, where’s my backup?” he asks as loudly as he dares, hoping like hell that his comms still work. He tries to shield the principal he’s carrying with his body and hears her breath. It’s not a soft exhale but a wet, messy cough, and he knows then that he’s lost._

_He eases her down, though if their enemies are smart — and they are, damn them — they’ll soon start shooting under the pipes, aiming for feet and ankles. The only mercy is that a stray shot might end the dying girl’s life, and Bond finds himself wondering if that responsibility should be his._

_“What happened? Oh god, what’s happened to her?”_

_It’s his primary asset — the man whose life Bond is supposed to preserve before any others. He’s pushing sixty, most of those years spent in labour camps and interrogation cells. His mind is fragile, a brilliant blade like sharp glass, and it shatters as he watches his daughter dying._

_He screams, and his screams pinpoint their location to the enemy recovery team._

_Guilt twists through Bond as he realises there’s nothing else to do. His backup — a traitor cell of rebels that the British government doesn’t dare openly support — isn’t coming. He’s out of bullets, and his knife is buried in the chest of a guard two hundred yards back through the tunnels._

_Bond’s shirt and hands are covered with a dying child’s blood, but he doesn’t hesitate. He balls up his fist and hits the old man, stunning him. He catches the thin, fragile body before it falls and breaks into a run, leaving the dying girl behind. There’s no time left for mercy — no time left for anything but the mission. Escape._

_His principal won’t die here. Bond won’t die here. But sometimes, he wonders if he doesn’t deserve it_.

 

~~~

 

Bond’s nightmares were eerily silent. Q awoke not to screams or sobs but to the sudden, violent thrashing of a powerful body unleashed of all conscious restraint. An outflung hand caught Q in the ribs and left him gasping, and he rolled out of the way before a second strike could catch his face.

Heart pounding, Q worked himself free of the twisted duvet and sheet, retreating to the edge of the bed. Bond had come home late in the night on an emergency charter flight from Paris. After Q had made the transportation arrangements, he’d come right home, knowing the mission had gone as badly as was humanly possible without actually ending in Bond’s death — a thought that still made Q break out into a cold sweat, because this time, it had been close.

Now, he sat carefully, not wanting to trigger an unconscious reaction from Bond, wondering if this nightmare was the kind he could ride out still on the bed. He preferred to stay just outside of arm’s reach for Bond’s usual brand of dreaming flashback, ready to lean in close when Bond startled awake, shuddering and reaching for comfort.

The other kind of nightmare, however, would force Q from the bed entirely; he would have to retreat to the desk on his side of the room or to the couch in the living room as Bond thrashed in the kind of PTSD-driven attack that would continue even after Bond’s eyes opened. Q knew damn well that in the aftermath of those sleeping horrors, even he might be seen as a potential threat. It happened more frequently than Q liked to admit, but he refused to talk about it. Q simply pretended that his insomnia was flaring up, which he declared best dealt with by working on his laptop in order to prevent waking Bond.

He didn’t know if Bond believed him or not.

 

~~~

 

The smell of tea eased Q from a restless doze, back into a body that ached, back twisted unnaturally. He propped up on one elbow and blinked at blue eyes, shadowed and bloodshot.

“Do I want to know why the hell you’re on the couch?” Bond asked gently, reaching for Q’s other hand to wrap his fingers around the handle of an oversized mug. The huge living room windows showed the overcast brushed-steel colour of London’s winter dawn.

Q took the mug gratefully, smiling up at Bond, letting consciousness slowly seep back as he sipped before answering. “Couldn’t sleep.” True. “Thought I could get some work done, but I didn’t want to wake you, so I came out here.” Mostly true. “I probably would have been more successful if I hadn’t gotten comfortable before realising that the quilt is in the wash due to overuse.” He smirked at Bond. Mostly true, with the benefit of being laced with enough sexual innuendo to perhaps divert Bond’s mind.

But Bond wasn’t easily diverted. He just frowned at Q’s apparent mistreatment of himself and rose from his crouch. Despite the wintry chill in the flat, he wore only boxers and gauze taped over the latest round of soon-to-be-scars on his back and chest. He gave Q a final worried look and walked silently for the kitchen, looking around with a subtle wariness as if expecting enemies to have infiltrated the secure flat.

Q stood and stretched, cracking his neck. He set down the mug and turned to scout where his laptop had fallen when he’d slipped into unconsciousness. He frowned to himself as he pulled the thin machine from between the seat and back cushions, brushing the lid unnecessarily. He set it down on the coffee table with a light thump and reclaimed his mug. As noisily as he was capable of in bare feet, he walked to the kitchen, where Bond was staring into the refrigerator.

As lightly as he could, Q asked, “Who’s making breakfast today? Because if it’s me, it’s Frosties. Sorry.” He studied Bond’s back, wanting to wrap his arms around Bond and press his face into the strong but tense lines in the space between Bond’s shoulders. He refrained, knowing better than to try until Bond was facing him.

“I’ve got it.” Bond started pulling ingredients off the shelves. “You should take a hot shower.” A hot shower sounded heavenly, but something in Bond’s voice kept him hovering in the kitchen.

Asking if Bond was all right would not only be trite but would probably give him away. Instead, Q padded — still trying for noise — to the bathroom cabinet, where he pulled out their admittedly well-stocked first aid kit. He grabbed a handful of towels to lay on the bed and set it all up in the bedroom. He didn’t know if Bond’s bandages actually needed to be changed, but the act itself seemed to soothe both of them.

He returned to the kitchen, where Bond’s attempt to arrange breakfast had stalled at the ‘pile everything on the counter’ stage. He was at the sink, water running, staring down at the stainless steel basin. Q could see the tension in his arms and shoulders.

“That looks too good to be put off with a shower,” he said, smiling. “I should wait anyway. First aid kit is all set for when we’re done with breakfast.”

Bond’s head lifted just a bit. When he turned, Q saw him frowning as if he’d forgotten his injuries. That happened, too.

Then Bond sighed, rolled his shoulders, and turned off the water. He pushed away from the sink and crossed the kitchen in three long, quick strides. His arms went around Q’s body, pulling him close with breath-stealing force, and he buried his face in Q’s neck. He was still tense, and Q could feel how his heart pounded, but this was progress.

Q wrapped his arms around Bond, tighter than he normally would, avoiding his injuries. “Or we could just leave this all here until later. Go back to bed. Come up for air and food and showers later when we feel more like joining the world.” Q kept his voice light without being playful — letting Bond interpret it however he wanted. Talking, laying quietly, sex, sleep... he would let Bond decide what he wanted. Needed.

The fact that Bond didn’t immediately answer told Q just how badly this last mission had gone, probably in ways Bond had kept from whatever after action report he’d written up on the flight from Paris. Instead of answering or moving out of the kitchen, he just held Q more tightly, hands under his shirt, splayed against his back as if he were the one who needed skin-to-skin contact and not Q.

“You probably starved while I was away,” Bond finally said, his voice distant and matter-of-fact.

Q hid a shiver. ‘Away’ was a new one. Usually it was ‘on mission’ or ‘in the field’. ‘Away’ was what you said when you went on holiday.

“Not exactly. Just don’t ask me just how much sugar I indulged in while you were —” Q swallowed. “Tell you what. I’ll let you finish making breakfast if you let me eat it in bed.” Not exactly a manipulation, he told himself. He really did feel like stretching out with Bond under the covers. “I’ll even let you pick the movie this time.”

Bond’s death grip on him finally relaxed. “You hate classic cinema,” he accused more easily. With one quick kiss to Q’s throat, he let go and turned back to making breakfast. “You only like movies with undead and explosions — or both.”

Q shrugged. “I’ve never been accused of having classy tastes, it’s true.” Then he walked over and leaned back against the counter, next to where Bond was cracking eggs. Q grinned at him. “But, Hitchcock with the sound off isn’t so bad as long as you keep whispering all the lines in my ear.”

“I may have made some of those up,” Bond said, giving Q a grin that almost reached his eyes. “After, we can watch your zombie movie with the girl with the incredible legs. You can explain again why she picked that dress for combat. At least my suits are tailored for fighting.”

“Because it makes her ridiculously oversized guns easier to get to for fending off the undead swarm, obviously.” Q brushed his hand over Bond’s arm. “If you think she’s bad in the movie, you should see how looks in the game. Oh, and I haven’t even introduced you to the joy that is _Serenity_ yet. Short dresses and big blades and the clunkiest combat boots you’ve ever seen.”

Bond gave him a baffled look. “ _Serenity_?” He reached past Q and opened one of the drawers, not-so-coincidentally trapping Q against the counter. “That’s hardly your style, Q. And if you tell me it’s a fantasy romantic comedy or something, I might have to shoot you.”

“No, that’s _The Fifth Element_ , which I’m saving for a special occasion.” Q smiled as Bond not so subtly pressed against him in his search through the drawer. “And anyway, you’re safe for now; I haven’t brought my movie server over from the other flat yet. I keep forgetting that there are still things over there I want.”

Bond went still, pinning Q in place with the sudden uncertainty in his eyes. For two seconds, three, four, the kitchen was absolutely silent. Then Bond turned away and started whisking the bowl of eggs, not meeting Q’s eyes as he too-casually said, “Bring over whatever you like. If you need room, just bin something of mine.”

Q’s immediate reaction was dismay — what had he said this time? But six weeks of more or less living together had given him enough insight into the fucked-up psychology of his Double O that Q suppressed his immediate reaction. Sometimes, the more casually Bond spoke, the more important the unspoken subtext, and Q hid his smile as he realised this might well be Bond’s way of asking him to formalise their informal living arrangements.

“Be careful, giving me free rein,” he said instead, watching Bond from behind his mug. “I might just decide to take advantage of it to get rid of that awful centerpiece on the hallway table.”

“That was a gift from the Russian Ambassador, and the only way you’re getting rid of it is if we break it.” Bond looked over, meeting his eyes. “If you think you _can_ , Quartermaster,” he added challengingly.

“That depends entirely on your policy on explosive compounds in the flat,” Q teased, grinning. Yes, he really was getting better at this, and the realisation added an extra lightness to his smile and posture.

Bond put down the bowl so he could grab Q and pull him off-balance. “That’s cheating,” he accused, one arm circling low on Q’s back. He buried his free hand in Q’s hair, not yet pulling, just combing his fingers through the strands. “You want it broken, you’ll have to do it yourself. But if you’re good, maybe you can convince me to help.”

Q laughed, nipping at Bond’s ear. Visions of him and Bond finding inventive ways to disassemble the steel and wooden monstrosity danced through his head. He opened his mouth to start offering a variety of options for “being good” for Bond before he realised what an idiot he could be. Bond wasn’t being overly sexual as much as sensual, which was completely out of character for a post-mission reunion. Good missions meant a playful Bond. Bad missions meant a hard, rough, demanding Bond. But last night Bond had merely come back — back to Q — and held him before falling into nightmares. Even now, Bond’s embraces and kisses weren’t sexual as much as... seeking comfort.

That was new.

Instead of a verbal response, Q hummed and leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. Inside, worry warred with a sense of genuine pleasure. No matter the reason, Bond’s affection was something he craved, and while Bond would resist actually talking about the mission and its affect on him, Q could give him his full attention. Bond knew how Q’s mind raced; he knew how precious it was that he could slow him down. Q also suspected Bond valued his role as Q’s protector, if not caretaker, and could always fall back on his success at that when other things went badly.

And instead of dragging Q out to the hallway to start the demise of the awful modernistic sculpture on the table, instead of turning back to the half-prepared breakfast, Bond just held Q close, petting Q’s hair until his heartbeat finally calmed. Q, for his part, tried to think about officially cohabiting with Bond, and tried not to let himself consider just how close this mission had apparently come to irreparably damaging Bond.

 

~~~

 

_Three dead men enter the luxurious flat reserved for the elite of the society — the conformists who support a regime that terrorises the rest of the nation into false displays of loyalty and love for their figurehead leader. They’re secure behind guards and gates and alarms. Safe from every threat, save one._

_Bond is waiting for them. He’s gone off-mission, and he doesn’t care._

_One man is from the military, a strutting peacock who’s never fired a gun save on a parade ground. His medals are chosen for colour, not accomplishment. One is from the ruling cabinet. His words shape policy._

_The other is an MI6 informant. The only one who knew the extraction schedule._

_Bond’s primary asset is locked in a boxcar. The train leaves in just over two hours. One good thing about a tyrannical government is that the trains generally run on time or the station masters tend to get shot._

_He’ll need every minute. He can’t remember when he last had bullets. He’ll have to use a knife instead._

 

~~~

 

Q heard the shout even over the sound of the shower — a harsh, tonal language he recognised as something Far Eastern, something that matched all too well with Bond’s last mission.

Bond hadn’t been sleeping, had he? Q had only been gone from the bed for a few minutes to start the shower and put away the first aid kit.

He’d spent an hour removing the temporary gauze bandages applied by someone in medical at Station H, Hong Kong. The fact that they hadn’t been replaced told Q that he’d come straight home from the airport, rather than reporting to MI6, something Bond did all too often. At least Q could comfort himself that Bond wasn’t retreating home to drink himself into insensibility the way he once did.

Now, Q looked out of the ensuite in time to see Bond stalk out of the bedroom. The plasters on his back stood out, pale against his tanned skin. He wore nothing but boxers, and the sight drew Q’s eye until Bond was around the corner and out of sight.

So Bond was awake. Not having a flashback, then? Q wondered if maybe Bond had just lapsed into his latest mission-centric language, something that happened often enough. He still remembered when a waiter had spilled a glass of wine over one of Bond’s suits right after a mission, and Bond had broken into a torrent of swearing in Arabic — not exactly a good idea these days.

Still, best to check on things. Nothing was broken or spilled in the bedroom, so Q walked out into the hallway before remembering that he was naked. He diverted to the linen cupboard to find the biggest, fluffiest towel he could.

As he wrapped it around his waist, he heard the alarm system chirp a warning. Then the balcony door hinges squealed in protest as the door was opened too quickly.

Q stopped, realising that he might well have been wrong. Bond hadn’t been idly cursing a stubbed toe or something he dropped — not if he was going out to the balcony wearing nothing but his pants in the middle of winter.

One of the benefits of Bond’s much touted water-heater was that Q could wrap the towel around himself and step out after Bond without worrying about his shower running cold, thus giving him all the time he needed to protest before Bond lit his first cigarette.

As he wrapped the towel, he paused to wonder if he really _should_ stop him. Bond was obviously having a hard time, and cigarettes were scientifically proven to have a calming effect on their addicts. But selfishness won out over generosity — _Q_ wanted to be Bond’s soothing addiction, not cigarettes.

He was, of course, too late to prevent Bond’s first deep inhale. An upset Bond was a task-oriented Bond, and that single-mindedness worried Q.

“Well,” he murmured, stepping out into the chilly weather, positioning himself to allow Bond to act as his windbreaker. “I thought I’d managed to get rid of all of those.”

Bond trapped the cigarette in his teeth and turned, offering Q the box before he went inside — breaking one of their agreed-upon rules about no smoking inside the actual flat. Startled, Q looked down at the foreign letters on the box and assumed they were left over from Bond’s mission.

Bond came back out, holding the quilt that they’d retrieved from the laundry earlier to watch movies in comfort. He wrapped it around Q, muffling him almost completely in soft cotton. His arms wrapped around Q’s body, trapping him in the blanket’s folds until he finally released one hand to flick ash off the cigarette.

“I went outside mission parameters.”

Well, _fuck_. Of course Bond had to finally open up on the patio, when Q was practically naked (without a compelling reason for it) and soon to be shivering unattractively. Quilt or no quilt, his feet were freezing. And Bond’s self-destructive streak tended to be all-or-nothing, so of course he himself was out here only in his pants. If it weren’t so damn cold, and if Q didn’t feel like he was walking on a tightrope of appropriate responses, he’d be getting all sorts of ideas. Instead, he chided himself for his self-centred thoughts and fell back on his crisis management training (subtitled Handling The Double O Agents). He just stayed in Bond’s arms and waited silently for whatever came next.

Bond made it through the entire foul-smelling cigarette before he tossed the smouldering butt into the empty flowerpot on the corner of the balcony. By then, Q was shivering, which might have been all that kept Bond from lighting a second. Instead, he bundled Q into the flat and gave him a stumbling push in the direction of the sofa. As Q got himself sorted out, managing to turn his ungraceful flop into more of a controlled fall, Bond went right to the bar to start phase two of his own personal crisis management process.

Bond came to the sofa with two glasses. Q freed the blanket so he could get it over both of them, spreading it across Bond as soon as he sat down. Bond’s skin was like ice, and Q had to force himself not to flinch away.

The first sip told Q that Bond had gone right for his top shelf scotch — another incredibly bad sign. He reserved those bottles for days that qualified as absolutes: absolute best or absolute worst. In this case, ‘absolute best’ didn’t fit.

“MI6 no longer has its informant.”

Dead, Q interpreted. But Bond was used that sort of loss. There was obviously much more to the story. He tucked in closer, sliding skin against skin wherever possible. He sipped the scotch and waited.

Bond put an arm around Q’s shoulders, tucking the quilt around him more tightly. “He burned the operation.” His voice was cold and calm. As he lifted the tumbler to his lips, his hand didn’t shake at all. “He admitted to it.”

That wasn’t good. Q didn’t want to imagine the circumstances under which such a confession would be offered. He’d been on the safe end of the comms often enough now to picture a variety of scenarios, each one more horrid than the last. Q reached up to the arm around his shoulders and slid his free hand carefully down Bond’s forearm, clearly broadcasting his intent to weave their fingers together. Bond didn’t resist, and as soon as their fingers were intertwined, he closed his hand, trapping Q.

“I recovered the primary asset,” Bond continued after another sip, and he might as well have been talking about a piece of data and not a human being, a British national, a scientist taken from a conference over forty years ago and made to disappear. He finished his drink and took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling, unseeing. Then his hand tightened a bit more. “Shower?”

Q didn’t want to alarm Bond, but deciding the risk was worth it, threw back the rest of his scotch in one fiery, burning gulp. He coughed as he squeezed Bond’s hand, and pulled Bond up with him as he stood. “The water should be nice and warm. You weren’t lying about the on-demand water heater. Truly a thing of beauty.”

Bond set down his glass, then took Q’s and set it down as well. He carefully unwrapped the blanket from where it was still tangled around their legs and ran his hands up Q’s arms. His eyes dropped, tracing a random pattern over Q’s scars and the tattoos that crawled up Q’s chest and around his body.

Because Q knew him so well — because Q had watched and learned and studied Bond — he saw the subtle shift in posture that marked the instant Bond allowed himself to relax another notch.

Bond said nothing. He took Q’s hand and led him around the coffee table and out of the living room, leaving the patio door open to the winter night.

 

~~~

 

_“They were supposed to be safe.”_

_The words are delivered in English, the accent warped by too many years outside the country. Bond ignores them, listening to the sound of the train’s wheels. He rubs a thumb over the blood flaking off the face of his watch. The only way to know where to get off the train is by timing._

_“Your people promised they would be safe!”_

_Bond is thinking ahead. Q made the exfiltration arrangements. Compartmentalisation meant safety. Bond needed as much of the operation in Q’s hands as possible. Q’s part had gone off flawlessly. And now, Bond knows why the rest of the mission had burned._

_“They’re dead! Don’t you care?”_

_The words are delivered like a slap that never lands. Bond looks up from his bloody hands, watching the primary asset in the faint light that stutters through breaks in the boxcar walls._

_“No.”_

 

~~~

 

Q carefully ran soapy hands over Bond’s back, feeling the tension creeping back into his muscles. It wasn’t the pain — the idiot agent performed minor surgery on himself with a penknife when necessary, and a few scrapes weren’t going to affect him. It was whatever had been running through his mind since he’d turned his back on Q and gone silent, leaning tiredly against the shower wall, possibly sleeping on his feet.

Under normal circumstances, Q would have offered the last, final holdout of Bond’s particular brand of tension relief, but these weren’t normal circumstances. The last thing Q wanted to do was make Bond feel like Q was taking the power away from him by pushing something Bond wasn’t ready for.

This was a first in their admittedly short relationship. It had been two days since Bond had returned, and the most they’d done was kiss. So Q kept his touches firm but not suggestive, using the soap not just to clean Bond’s abused skin but to massage his neck, back, and shoulders.

For the first time since he’d first been snapped up by MI6, Q felt a violent surge of anger for what they demanded from their people. It was _unfair_ , he thought stubbornly to himself, hands pausing to tighten on Bond’s upper arms. Bond had to give so much. To bear witness to the unspeakable. And then he was expected to bounce back from it with a few mandatory counseling sessions — which he never attended anyway — and a few days off, only to do it all over again.

 _Unfair_. But necessary.

Q moved out of the spray to rinse the soap off Bond’s back. Then he wrapped his arms around Bond and, in a position that was fast becoming habit, rested his forehead between Bond’s shoulder blades.

Bond covered Q’s hands with his own and let out a sigh. “Have you warmed up?” he asked, turning enough to glance over his shoulder without letting Q free.

An unanswerable question, Q thought. His skin had warmed up, but that was it. “Have you?” he asked instead, forcing a smirk that Bond would feel on his spine. “Your exposed feet were out there longer than mine, poor mangey things that they are.”

“I’ve spent more time near the bloody arctic than you’ve been out of school,” Bond said more lightly. He twisted in Q’s arms, rearranging their bodies so Q’s back was pressed to his chest, though he was careful to keep Q under the hot shower spray. He kissed Q’s ear and said, “And I was skiing before you were even born.”

Q tipped his head down, pretending to stare at Bond’s feet while actually trying to compose his features into something more closely resembling the humourous lover Bond obviously needed right now. Water cascaded through his hair, beating comfortably over his neck and shoulders and running into his eyes, obscuring his vision.

“That explains it, then. Next time you’re sent to the Arctic, it’s my special brand of smart wool you’ll be wearing. Oh, and moisturizer to help with the cracks in your heels. It’s my legs they rough up at night, so I’m going to do my part to —”

“Enough,” Bond interrupted, leaning back against the shower wall. He turned Q to face him and spread his legs to keep their bodies close — and uninterested for the moment, at least on Bond’s part. He pushed Q’s hair back out of his eyes, smoothing it until the wet strands lay to his satisfaction. “If you want to go back to your flat, you can. I can’t remember the last time I slept more than twenty minutes.”

Q glared at him. “Why on earth would I do that?” He shuddered at the thought. “You usually sleep better when I’m around. And anyway, I turned the heat down in anticipation of not being there — even if I turned it back up, it would take days for the walls and floors to heat back up. No, thank you.” he finished emphatically, clutching Bond tightly. Like hell Bond was going to send him away because of a few nightmares. Then he realised maybe he was being too selfish, convincing himself Bond needed him. “Well, unless of course you’d sleep better if I were elsewhere.”

Bond tensed as if Q had struck him. Then he shook his head, scattering water droplets from his hair, and held Q more tightly, burying his face against the side of Q’s neck.

“It —” he began, and his fingers pressed hard into Q’s body, hard enough to spark pain and leave fingertip-sized bruises against his ribs. “I set fire to the flat, after. They’ll cover it up. Bad press. MI6 won’t find out,” he mumbled into Q’s hair. “I lost both secondaries.”

Q’s silent, inward curses were varied and colourful enough to make even Bond stare in shock, had he heard them. ‘Off-mission’ didn’t even begin to cover it. Revenge didn’t cover it. Bloody, horrible vengeance was probably a far more accurate description of whatever Bond must have done.

But now, at least, he understood. Bond’s mission had been to recover three people, but his _priority_ had been the primary asset. If the secondaries — a cold word for a wife and child — endangered the mission, Bond was to abandon them.

Bond had gone into a hostile nation to recover a family. He’d come out with only one man, a man who would now be forced to live without his wife and daughter. Q thought about Bond’s file, the story of his parents.

 _Orphans make the best agents_ , he thought.

True, perhaps, except when forced to destroy a family for the sake of a mission.

While not usually violent, Q suddenly wanted to be the one to tear apart the traitorous bastards who had left Bond in that position. This was the worst kind of crime in Bond’s skewed version of morality, and by putting his trust in the wrong people, Bond had unwittingly become complicit.

Q clung to Bond as the full cost of the mission finally sunk in. He devised and summarily dismissed a dozen responses, none of which could possibly be close to adequate. He was overwhelmingly glad to be here with Bond, sharing in his burden as a friend and lover... but he didn’t know how he could ease Bond’s troubled mind.

Without the time-gauge of a draining water heater to help Q count the minutes, he had no idea how long he stayed in Bond’s arms. Eventually, though, Bond let go and gently turned him around. His touch became lighter. He found the soap and spread it up Q’s arms, his movements slow and careful as if he were refreshing his memory of the contours of Q’s body.

Despite the dark path Q’s thoughts had taken, he found himself relaxing under Bond’s touch. The gentler attention no longer made Q feel as if he were being watched by some threatening predator hiding in the shadows just out of sight. Bond’s touch was possessive and caring but it had lost its desperate edge.

When his hands moved to Q’s back, his fingertips circled around the tattoo high up over Q’s spine. With one finger, he traced the shape of the numbers — 007 — and the small, intricate Walther inked beside the 7.

Then Bond moved, pulling Q into his arms again, and murmured into his hair, “You’re everything I care about in this world.”

Q flashed back to the insane twists of circumstance that had brought them to this point, ruthlessly shoving down yet another mad urge to laugh. He blamed it on two days’ tension and scotch too quickly drunk.

“Identifying marks,” Bond continued, baffling Q for a moment. “If not for regulations, I’d let you pick out a tattoo for me.”

Q wondered about invisible marks, like a signal buried in Bond’s bloodstream that would constantly beat out the letter Q in Morse Code. He’d have to think about it more when his blood wasn’t singing.

Bond held Q more tightly, stepping back not to move but as if he were starting to lose his balance. He kissed Q’s ear, and his voice was muffled as he said, “I love you.”

For the first time in what felt like days, Q finally knew exactly what to say. But Bond was practically swaying on his feet as the lethal combination of scotch, nicotine, sleep deprivation, and emotional overload came crashing down around him. Q held on tight, bracing himself against the wall just long enough to reach out and shut the water off. He tried to turn to guide Bond out of the shower, though Bond’s death grip made it nearly impossible.

“I love you too,” he finally responded, doing his best to maneuver them out of the stall. “And as such, I’m afraid I’m going to have insist we go to bed now before we slip and crack our skulls on the tile. What poor timing that would be.”

Bond let go enough to make a halfhearted swipe at the residue of soap clinging to Q’s back. “My eyes are still open. I could drive like this and not crash unintentionally,” he said, shoving the shower door open enough to snatch at one of the towels. Then he closed the door hard, swearing, “Christ! It’s fucking ice out there. If the heater’s gone off —”

“You left the balcony door open,” Q interrupted.

Bond shoved the towel against Q’s chest and started ineffectually trying to dry him off. “What?”

That was the last straw for Q’s own slightly fragile state. He stared into Bond’s bloodshot, dark-rimmed eyes for a long moment, realising Bond probably wasn’t going to remember any of this tomorrow. The mad laugh finally tore itself from where it had been suppressed so long in Q’s chest, shaking them both in ridiculous mirth. “Christ. All right. I’ll go close the door,” he panted, grinning. “Last one to the duvet brings the other one coffee in bed tomorrow.”

He made it one single step into the freezing flat before Bond caught him by the arm and pulled him back. “You’ll stay with me tonight?”

Q brought his hands to either side of Bond’s face, smile fading into serious assurance. “Always.” He pressed a kiss to Bond’s lips before pulling back to add with a grin, “I’d offer to sell my old flat as assurance, but it’s technically not mine, so...” He shrugged. “You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

Another layer of shadow slipped from Bond’s expression. This time, he followed Q out of the shower and pulled down a towel from the rack. “You hate morning coffee,” he pointed out, drying off as he started walking for the bedroom. Q had no doubt that the _way_ he dried off was deliberate, pulling the towel high over his shoulders, leaving himself completely bare and visible from his ribs down. He looked back over his shoulder and managed a smile that was almost completely his own. “Besides, you’re about to lose.”

Q grinned. “Does letting you win count as a ‘me being good’ point scored on behalf of hideous Russian gift destruction?”

Deliberately, Bond dropped the towel and climbed up onto the bed, kicking at the disarrayed blankets so he could get under. He folded them back invitingly. “Make it espresso in the morning, and it’s ‘me fucking you over the hallway table’ as my contribution to the destruction.”

Q wanted to pretend to ponder, appearing to seriously consider Bond’s negotiation, but he was just too damn cold. Clutching the towel, he decided to be practical now, saving one of them a trip later. He ran out to slam and lock the patio door before dashing back and jumping into the bed. “Terms acceptable,” he muttered, crawling as deeply into the nest of blankets and as close to Bond as possible.

Unselfishly, Bond rolled Q onto his back and covered him completely, wrapping Q in his arms and legs, pinning him under the body-warm blankets. He crawled up enough to rest his head on the pillow beside Q’s, leaving them in an awkward tangle that had Q’s breath shortened and the threat of his hands and feet going numb, but he knew Bond would move as soon as he fell asleep. He rarely did this — he was always so concerned with hurting Q with his weight or strength, even by accident — and Q didn’t care if in a few hours he couldn’t feel anything but Bond.

“Perfect,” he sighed, watching Bond slip into contented sleep before soon following after.


End file.
